Look at the sunflower, he said, there was a dead gray
shadow against the sky, big as a man, sitting
dry on top of a pile of ancient sawdust-
memories of Blake-my visions-Harlem
Greasy Sandwiches, dead baby carriages, black
treadless tires forgotten and unretreaded, the
poem of the riverbank, pots, steel
knives, nothing stainless, only the dank muck
and the razor-sharp artifacts passing into the
crackly bleak and dusty with the smut and smog
a battered crown, seeds fallen out of its face,
soon-to-be-toothless mouth of sunny air, sun-
rays obliterated on its hairy head like a dried
from the sawdust root, broke pieces of plaster
fallen out of the black twigs, a dead fly in its ear,
Unholy battered old thing you were, my sunflower O
my soul, I loved you then!
Excerpt from "Sunflower Sutra" by Allen Ginsberg
photos by Denise Grünstein
Sorry I've been away for a few days, dears.
I've been busy with a photo shoot, editing, and life in general!
Will show you new photos soon soon soon!